


Fukushoku

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [20]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Established Relationship, Love, Rope Bondage, Shibari, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-31 19:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21451147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: That irrepressible dimple appears in the angel’s cheek. “Though I do have something I would quite like for you to take with you, if you have a moment.”“Oh yeah?” Probably another batch of Christmas cards, he thinks. Or more charitable donations to that little shop near his own. Or maybe a box of books that don’t fit in the library and have to go back to the bookshop. Or–A flicker of the angel’s fingers and there’s a thin blue rope coiled around his hand.“Gne??” Crowley asks. He tries again. “Mbuh?”Aziraphale’s smile is small and wicked and perfect. “A little reminder, darling, of who will be waiting for you when you get home. If you will?”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Hunger [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1407112
Comments: 45
Kudos: 219





	Fukushoku

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes, I know, it's early for a fic based around Christmas, but I've seen the Coca Cola van and sat through a bunch of kids singing Jingle Bells, so I am totally _fine_ with posting this now. 
> 
> Also, the title is "side dish" in Japanese ;) Because technically, this isn't a main course.

Crowley has been standing in the doorway for a good fifteen minutes, watching Aziraphale wrestle with a tangled knot of Christmas lights. It always amuses him when Aziraphale huffs and pouts and glowers at things, when he could fix them with a snap of his fingers.

“Are those really necessary?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe.

The angel’s glower fades. “I think they’re rather lovely, don’t you?”

Covered in tiny glowing LED stars, shining almost as brightly himself, the angel should be on the cover of some cheesy Hallmark card.

“We have _very_ different definitions of that word,” Crowley says, pushing off from the doorframe. He snaps his fingers and the jumble of wires unravels like a compliant snake. He glances around the rest of the living room. “You do remember it’s the wrong date? I mean, properly wrong, not even a little bit, but wrong time of year entirely?”

“Oh, hush, Ebenezer,” Aziraphale chides fondly, as he strings the lights around the potted tree in the corner. At least it’s still alive and not one of those chopped down monstrosities. Bloody waste of a good tree, those.

Crowley bites his tongue for all of thirty seconds. “And _that_ is a Pagan tradition you’re decorating there.”

The angel gives him a stern look. “Are you going to be difficult or are you going to help?”

Crowley grins, snatching up a box full of spun glass bauble. “I can’t do both?”

Aziraphale’s lips do that thin thing when he’s crushing down a smile. “If you must know,” he says, “I like seeing the trees in the windows. It’s charming. Homely. Very human.”

“No one can see in our window. S’the whole point. We have a hedge.”

“_I_ can see in our window,” Aziraphale counters. “When we come in from outside.”

Crowley rolls his eyes dramatically. “Speaking of,” he says. “I need to head into the city for a bit this afternoon. D’you want to come? We could…” His own grin is trying very hard to get out. “Pop into the Ritz for a nibble.”

The back of the angel’s neck goes pink. “As delightful as that sounds, I’m afraid I can’t,” he says. He takes another bauble from the box. “The town council have asked if I would play Father Christmas for the Christmas Party for the children in the town hall.”

Crowley’s brain screeches to a halt at the very thought of Aziraphale in a Santa costume. “Nooo…” He can’t stop the laughter from bubbling up. “Oh Hell… you– you do know you can’t grant all their Christmas wishes, don’t you?”

Aziraphale arches his eyebrows. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Just checking,” Crowley chuckles, grinning. “So. Fake beard or bring your own?”

Aziraphale rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I _could…_”

“No.”

“But it would be more–”

“If I come home and you have a beard on, I’m not kissing you. Not even if there’s mistletoe pasted all over the ceiling.”

The angel pokes his tongue out. “You’re no fun.”

Crowley makes a face in return. “Humbug.” He hangs a bauble and considers it. “You’d better bring me a photo, though.”

Aziraphale shines. “Of course, my darling.”

Crowley wrinkles his nose. “I just want to see how daft you look.”

“Of course you do.”

Crowley, in the best angel-smiting methods of truly evil demons everywhere, throws a woollen snowman at him.

By noon, the living room looks as if a Christmas market has thrown up all over it and the angel is humming some daft Victorian carol to himself as he tidies up the boxes. He looks happy and, in turn, that gives Crowley the stupid warm and fuzzies.

“Angel,” he says, if only to see that joyful face turned his way for a moment. Aziraphale glances up, stealing his thoughts for a minute. “City. I’m heading off in a bit. Want me to get anything while I’m there?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Any little… toys you might like?”

That irrepressible dimple appears in the angel’s cheek. “I think I have toys a-plenty for now, my darling.” And the smile is replaced with a more thoughtful look. “Though I do have something I would quite like for you to take with you, if you have a moment.”

“Oh yeah?” Probably another batch of Christmas cards, he thinks. Or more charitable donations to that little shop near his own. Or maybe a box of books that don’t fit in the library and have to go back to the bookshop. Or–

A flicker of the angel’s fingers and there’s a thin blue rope coiled around his hand.

“Gne??” Crowley asks. He tries again. “Mbuh?”

Aziraphale’s smile is small and wicked and perfect. “A little reminder, darling, of who will be waiting for you when you get home. If you will?”

Crowley knows how to snap his fingers. S’like that, isn’t it? Finger and thumb and click, right? Simple? Been doing it for… well, not today. “Help?” he says uselessly.

Aziraphale is in his space at once. No fingersnap. Nope. The rope is over his shoulder and his hands are under Crowley’s shirt. Old-fashioned way. Manual. Up and over and Crowley shivers all over as he’s laid bare like a tree for decorating.

The angel’s expression is warm as he slips both arms under Crowley’s and loops the rope around his back. “I won’t tie it too tightly,” he says lightly, as if they’re discussing the weather or something. “Best that you’re comfortable, don’t you think?”

“Nnngh,” Crowley agrees, shivering as cord slips over bare skin. It’s soft as a feather and goosebumps ripple the length of his body. Scales flicker out too. Aziraphale draws and loops and all Crowley can do is sway, as knots curl over his heart and against his ribs.

Not much, all told. Straps of rope over his shoulders, around his ribs and around his waist. An intricate harness of delicate knots, pressing comfortably into his skin, barely hard enough to leave a mark, but snug enough to be felt with every breath. Aziraphale’s tender hidden hold on him.

A final tug from behind and Aziraphale ties the knots off, then strokes a hand the length of his back. He pauses, then unpins Crowley’s hair from the knot at the back of his head, dragging his fingers through it. Crowley shivers convulsively, tilting his head to one side, then the other.

Aziraphale gathers it all, sweeping it in a heavy wave over Crowley’s left shoulder.

“Look at me, will you, my dear?”

Crowley glances back over his right shoulder.

The click of the camera is like a charge through the demon’s body. Aziraphale, preserving this moment. Aziraphale, cherishing this moment. Crowley’s world swims again and angelic hands steady him. They set him down on the arm of the chair, they repin in his hair, and they reach down to fetch his abandoned shirt.

Crowley runs his fingertips over the knot at his heart, trying to find words and thoughts and breathing.

“You look beautiful,” Aziraphale says as he steps in front of him again, voice soft with wonder. He covers Crowley’s hand with his own, holding it there. “And when you come home, I’ll unwrap you.”

It shouldn’t sound so… so… Jesus, it shouldn’t, but Crowley makes a small, needy sound and sways in to kiss him.

Aziraphale cups his cheeks tenderly, stroking them with his thumbs. He looks worried. “Should I have waited, darling? I don’t know if you’re in any state to drive.”

“M’fine,” Crowley insists. He tugs his shirt from the angel’s hand before the angel could change his mind, pulling it back on over his head. S’dark and neat. Can barely see the rope through it. He touches, makes sure it’s there.

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asks, reaching out to tug the ends of his shirt neatly down. “I wouldn’t want to distract you.”

That, more than anything, pushes through the pleasant, dopey haze Crowley is swimming in. “Well, we both know _that_’s a first class lie, don’t we?” he says, making the angel duck his head in faux embarrassment. He gets up and kisses Aziraphale on the end of his nose. “I’ll be fine. Promise. Can’t leave you with a disappointing present to unwrap, can I?”

“Oh, _you_,” Aziraphale says, giving him a little swat.

It’s all words, though, and as soon as Crowley sits down in the Bentley, a row of knots down the middle of his back remind him what’s hiding under his clothes and it’s almost tempting to march straight back in and beg the angel to finish the job.

But they’ve got things to do and he’s a multi-millennia year old demon who crafted the stars and defied Satan himself! He can control himself for… oh buggering Hell. Five hours.

Christmas presents. He need to get into the city and finally find something for Aziraphale that make him do that soft, glowy, pink-cheeked thing. There’s obvious choices there, especially given the fun and games they’ve been having ever since they moved into the cottage. Never enough toys, he knows, even if Aziraphale hasn’t quite caught up with that idea yet.

He lets the Bentley take charge on the road, leaning back in his seat and trying – and failing – to concentrate on a list.

S'funny how distracting a bit of rope can be.

Even when he’s wandering in the shops, he finds himself following the line running across his ribs with his fingertips instead of looking at the array of angel-flustering merchandise. Nothing spiky, he thinks, tracing the knot at his hip with his thumb. Definitely nothing pain-inducing, he decides as he breathes in a little deeper and feels the cords tense over his ribs.

Shop after shop, object after colourful object, and nothing.

Frustration demands an intermission, so he retreats to a coffee shop, orders an entire jug of the black stuff and spreads a napkin out in front of him. Solid list, he thinks, is easier. Out of his head, away from the snug diversion of the knots he can feel if he leans just _so_.

Simple heading.

Things Aziraphale likes:

  * food
  * books
  * touching
  * words
  * making marks

His thoughts trail off as he slips a hand under his shirt, slipping a finger under the rope. It’s so soft and smooth and Aziraphale said he’d prepared it himself. He always does daft things like that, soft little things, things Crowley never would’ve even thought of. It’s one of the things Crowley likes best about the angel. All the soft little things he does without even trying. Does he even know? Crowley frowns, trying to remember if he’s ever told…

Oh.

The napkin is pushed aside and he takes a fresh one.

This one is easier. He grins as he scribbles each thought. There are plenty. Six millennia worth of daft, sentimental, ridiculous thoughts that he’s never ever put into words. He turns the napkin, adds more and more and more, until the surface is covered.

Crowley examines it. It’s a bloody great mess of a thing, but it’s given him an idea and if it doesn’t fluster the angel good and proper… well, then it’s time for him to turn in his demon card. But if he plays his cards right, on Christmas day, he’ll have a bright pink angel.

Of course, can’t just give the unexpected.

He returns to one of the nearest sex shops and picks out a couple of little items and one particularly large, wobbly and sparkly white one, shimmering with gold flecks. Crowley gives if an experimental jiggle and grins. Oh, the angel’ll try and feign mortified indignation, but he’s as curious as a cat. It’ll be used.

The two napkins are tucked away in an inside pocket. That’s a project for another day, when he can think beyond the gentle press of Aziraphale’s ropes around him. That needs to be special and that means more concentration.

His phone pings when he’s on the way back to the car. He doesn’t recognise the number, but he has a suspicion he knows what the message is about, so he thumbs it open.

[mr fell wanted me to send you this picture for him]

Aziraphale, beaming, in a Santa suit appears on the screen, the hat jauntily perched on his head, a sack of presents in his hands. And the bugger has manifested a damned beard. He’s all curly and fluffy and beaming and Crowley can’t help smiling in response.

[thx] he replies, then – out of devilry, adds [show him this – c u l8r w/ 🎁]

[👍]

Crowley scrolls back to the image. Stupid damned angel and his stupid big, happy smile. He taps the screen and saves the image as his background. As soon as he gets in the car, he rummages around in his pocket for the napkin and pulls it out, adding another note. Then he leans back hard in the seat and shivers pleasantly as the pattern of knots across his back press in.

He remembers the over-and-under of Aziraphale’s hands. He remembers the whisper of the cord slithering against his skin. He breathes a little deeper again and feels the pressure around his ribs and over his shoulders.

He slips his hand under his shirt, exhales, and eases his fingers beneath the knot that rests against his heart, then breathes in all the way. Everything pulls tighter and he holds the breath for as long as he can, his head falling back against the headrest.

This…

If they could do this every time they had to be apart…

He catches a glimpse of his own reflection in the wing mirror, shirt rucked up, face flushed, lips parted, and laughs breathlessly, releasing a gust of air.

If they did this every time, he would get bugger all done.

Doesn’t stop him breathing in again, pressing himself back against the seat, making everything pull and dig and tighten and _ache_ in all the right ways. Angel knows what he’s doing. Every time, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

And, the thought occurs to Crowley, what he’ll be undoing.

There are a _lot_ of knots. They’re all around him. They’ll take time to unravel and Aziraphale does so like to untangle things properly. He’ll do them one by one, length by humming length dragging against his body. Crowley releases a quivering breath at the thought, the very idea of the tug, the hiss, the whisper, the gentle slap of rope on bare skin.

With his other hand, he fumbles for his phone, ringing home. Aziraphale doesn’t pick up. Obviously. Probably still doting on the kids. But his voice is on the answer machine and it makes Crowley breathe a little deeper, a little slower.

“Hello! We’re not in at the moment! Leave your message when you hear a beep!” There’s a muffled silence, then a “Is that right? Did I do it? Did I make the answer?”

And his own reply, “You did now.”

He grins at the beep. He never checks the messages himself – technically, it’s a vintage call-screen function for him, but Aziraphale loves to get a message. The flashing red light makes him giddy.

“All right, angel?” Crowley drawls. “Just ringing to let you know I’m on my way home.” He curls his fingers against his chest and his breath whispers out in a pleased groan as the rope tightens again. “You better be ready to unwrap me, angel. I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon.”

A second beep and he terminates the call and, with reluctance, slips his hand free from the rope. There’s a 6-point star of lines pressed into the back of his hand and he runs his finger along each one, the texture delicate but there. Like scales, almost.

Go– Sat– someone’s sake, if this is how he gets with just his chest or just his wrists, he’s going to be in trouble if Aziraphale ever decides to go the whole – ha! – hog.

Right. No more…anything. Home. Head home and hope the angel is waiting.

By the time he’s outside city limits and heading south, night has closed in. S’the big difference between town and country, really. In the city, everything is illuminated and bright and harsh, but the further away he gets, houses and villages are dotted around the countryside like constellations, shimmering against the darkness of the landscape.

Turns out he was wrong about the window and the tree.

He forgot, completely forgot that they come over a hill then dip down towards their house, and as soon as he crests the hill, it’s there, like a beacon, the warm glow of their windows and the sparks of twinkling lights. He smiles fondly. Oh Aziraphale’s going to be _insufferable_ when he finds out.

The gates are wide open already for him and as he pulls up, he takes the time to snap his fingers, hiding his purchases and the napkin deep in his own rarely-used wardrobe. Technically, he could have wrapped them in the same gesture, but Aziraphale loves the personal touch and nothing says personal like duct-taping half a roll of wrapping paper around something with a very definite outline in order to make your significant other go beet-red.

The gravel crunches underfoot and the air is brisk and crisp when he gets out of the car. He shivers, crushing his way across to the front door and is completely unsurprised when Aziraphale draws it open for him, a smile plastered on his blessedly beardless face.

He's also got rid of the Santa suit, thank goodness, but Crowley can’t help staring a bit. Yeah, technically, they’ve seen each other starkers, but this is different. Not often the angel has his top buttons of his shirt undone or the sleeves rolled up above his elbows.

“Erk?” Crowley says.

Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle around the edges, the way they always do when he’s very pleased with himself and he gives one of his happy little wiggles. “I was waiting for you,” he says, as if that is in any way going to help. He opens the door a little wider. “Come in, won’t you? You’re letting in quite a draft.”

Crowley steps across the threshold and as soon as the door is closed, Aziraphale steps breathtakingly close to him and reaches up to deftly remove Crowley’s glasses.

“I could’ve done that,” Crowley manages to say.

The blessed angel’s smile is warm and close and somewhere beyond those heavenly eyes, Crowley hears the click of the glasses on the table. “Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale says, laying his hands against Crowley’s chest and sliding them up. “But I rather promised to unwrap you, didn’t I?”

Crowley’s mouth is opening and shutting, but his words have buggered off somewhere, and a tingle runs the length of his spine as Aziraphale pushes his coat over his shoulders and _off_. Unwrapping, he thinks giddily. Of course the bloody angel wouldn’t just make it about the rope.

Aziraphale steps back far enough to hang Crowley’s coat on the rack beside the door. “Now,” he says, taking Crowley by the hand. “Come with me, darling.”

Crowley follows. Not as if he has anywhere else he wants to be.

The house is warm and smells of spices and baking, but Aziraphale isn’t taking them that way. He leads Crowley through to the bathroom. The bath is full and the room is heavy with steam and the scent of bergamot and cinnamon. Even the towels all match for once, perfectly lined up and folded along the heated towel rail.

“You’ve been planning,” Crowley says weakly.

Aziraphale laughs. “You indulged my wishes for decorations,” he says. “Consider this my gratitude.”

“You didn’t have to–”

“I know.” The angel goes to his knees and Crowley’s heart is in his throat. “But I wanted to.” He pats his knee and Crowley lifts one foot, letting the angel unravel the first of the knots on his person. The other shoe follows, and with them the socks that Crowley only ever resorts to in the winter months.

The belt is a knot, or as near as makes no difference and, upraised on his knees, Aziraphale undoes it and removes it with such care that Crowley whines in his throat. It’s torture, this. Best kind of torture, the threat and promise and the final act.

“Patience,” Aziraphale chides, rising and rolling the belt around his hand. It hisses against _his_ skin, but not against Crowley’s, and that’s just not fair.

“You’ve made me wait _all_ day,” he tries to mimic the angel’s best pouty tone. “I’ve been _very_ patient.”

Aziraphale sets down the belt and steps deliciously – oppressively – close. “You have, haven’t you?” he murmurs, his lips a wicked curl, a split second before his fingers slip up under his t-shirt and somehow find the knot over Crowley’s heart, wrap around it, pulling every other cord tighter. Crowley’s moan echoes off the tiled walls and he sways into the angel’s hold.

Aziraphale’s other hand curls behind the base of his skull, cradling tenderly.

“Is that what you wanted, my darling?” he murmurs gently, even as his fingers slip down behind the knot and pull tighter.

Crowley nods, suddenly and sharply aware of the ridges curving into his hips, his waist, his shoulders, his ribs. Marks. There’ll be marks now, deeper and visible. Lovely, snaking corded marks.

“Lean back,” Aziraphale prompts.

Crowley only hesitates because the floor is smooth and slick underfoot and his heart stutters, but when he leans, Aziraphale is holding him. From vertical to horizontal they go and Aziraphale is over him, holding him, lowering him, gently, gently bracing him mere inches off the tiles of the floor. The knots and ropes are pressing all over his torso, like the hands that aren’t quite touching him now. He could reach down to reassure himself, could brace, but as he stares up, he knows he doesn’t _have_ to. Aziraphale could cradle him like this, gently swaying, until the stars burned out.

“That’s right,” the angel murmurs, as if he can read his mind. “I’ve got you, my love.”

Crowley’s world is all and only centred on that face, those eyes, that smile. Safe, he knows, though he’s barely touching the ground. Anchored by the ropes holding him. Held. Secure. Loved. His arms slip to fall loose by his sides. Doesn’t need to resist or hold himself. It’s – he’s in his angel’s hands and he’s… good. He’s – it’s good. All good.

Aziraphale smiles. “Close your eyes, love,” he whispers. “I have you.”

Couldn’t disobey, not even if he wanted to, not when his eyes are already slipping closed and his body is loose and still. Without sight to distract him, all he feels is warm. Quiet and warm, only broken by the whisper of a breeze against the windows and the gentle, secure press of the ropes holding him up.

Feels like peace. No fight, no worry, no… anything.

When his shoulders touch the floor some immeasurable time later, he only makes a token sound of protest.

“I know,” Aziraphale says, voice warm and fond and so close. “But enough for today, my love.” His arm slips beneath Crowley’s shoulder, gently easing him up, cradling him as tenderly as the ropes had held him. “Otherwise, you might not want to come back to me.”

Crowley forces his eyes open to protest and knows that expression on the angel's face. Doesn’t even bother with words, just pokes his tongue out.

Aziraphale laughs, stroking his cheek. "Impertinent serpent," he says fondly. He's seated behind Crowley all at once, his chest broad and warm against Crowley's back, and between their bodies, his hand is working. One coil then another, a whisper of rope on bare, thrumming skin. Isn't even looking, Crowley thinks, letting his eyes drift peacefully closed again. Just tugging and the rope is coming loose as if by magic.

A kind of magic, he supposes.

He shudders anew when Aziraphale's fingers trace the gentle ridges left behind, pushing the rope down and away.

"Shall we undress you, my love?" Aziraphale murmurs close to his ear. "Get you out of this tangle?"

"Mm." Crowley agrees. Not like he'll be doing anything apart from lying there like a piece of overcooked linguine.

Aziraphale can tell and holds him up, lifts one arm then the next, and finally pulls Crowley's t-shirt over his head, casting it aside. Crowley's eyes dip down and he breathes deep, admiring the pattern of a six-point star branching out from the void over his breastbone. With effort - stupid spaghetti arms - he brings his hand up onto his side. Skin is all tingly where it was, makes him shiver again.

"You did so well," Aziraphale murmurs. "I wondered if I might have asked too much of you, but you did _beautifully_."

Crowley grumbles, the heat burning in his cheeks, but good heat. Nice.

Aziraphale's hand covers his, guiding his fingers to trace those lines. "You looked lovely, you know," he says, rocking Crowley close in his embrace. "I love seeing you like that." His hand drags Crowley's up, splaying it over his chest, touching as many lines of the star as he can. "There is such beauty in utter surrender."

Crowley cracks an eye. "S'soppy tosh," he murmurs, shifting his fingers to tangle them with Aziraphale.

"Mm. I am a very soppy fellow."

Crowley smiled, knocking his head against the angel's chin. "Damn right." He breathes in, slow and deep, and out again. "Angel?"

"Yes, my love?"

"Thanks."  
Aziraphale's smile isn't just on his face anymore. The warmth of it floods every bit of the room and every bit of Crowley's happily flopped body. "My pleasure." He gently guides Crowley to sit up. "Do you feel up to bathing?"

“Hm?" Crowley sways gently from side to side, even with a hand at his shoulder.

"A bath," Aziraphale says. "It was so cold today, I thought you might like to warm up."

Crowley blinks at him, then at the still-steaming bath. Good, he thinks. Good plan. "You with me?"

"Me?"

"Mm." He gives the angel a beatific smile. "Hold me up. Don't wanna sink."

Aziraphale's eyes do that crinkle thing again. "Of course," he says. "But let's make this simpler for both of us." He snaps his fingers and clothes are gone. "Now..." He unfolds and lifts Crowley as if he weighs nothing. Good thing too. Crowley's legs couldn't do the job. Stupid noodle legs. Carries him one, two, three steps, then climbs into the tub.

Takes some work – for the angel, not for Crowley – to get all noodle limbs into the bowl of angel soup. Water goes everywhere and Crowley sniggers when angel swears.

"Amused, are you?" Aziraphale murmurs, when the water settles and they're sprawled in the tub. Should've been back to chest, but Crowley's slippery and stubborn and is sprawled with his face pressed into Aziraphale's chest. Hears the heartbeat. Feels the every breath. And fingers in his hair stroke, stroke, stroking.

"Mm." Crowley wriggled up a little way, water sloshing, and tucks his face into the softness of Aziraphale's throat. "Angel?"

"Yes, darling?"

Crowley presses a light, sleepy kiss to his throat. "Love you."

And the smile lights his world up again. "I love you too."


End file.
